


kurusu is typing...

by nayt0reprince



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Post-December Spoilers, a drabble i guess, bad ending spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 15:18:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12192441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nayt0reprince/pseuds/nayt0reprince
Summary: mishima dreams of three dots and a “ping” sound that will never come. until it does.





	kurusu is typing...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [achu3p](https://archiveofourown.org/users/achu3p/gifts).



> a ree fanfic? in MY ao3? it’s more likely than you think. shout - out to mishima boy allison for pulling through like a pal in giving me this super indulgent idea. apologies if it’s not too great or coherent i’m on the struggle-bus with words rn but here we go anyways. lemme know what you think. also haha post dec spoilers. presently un-beta'd.

In the pit of Mishima’s stomach, he knows.

The truth weighs heavy around the empty desk hugging close to the window, chair standing attentively as though waiting for its owner to come back. Sometimes, Mishima wanders over to it before class starts, fingertips resting on the polished wood enjoying its newfound freedom from extraneous eraser shavings and smeared graphite dick-doodles. The weird-smelling bottles filled with plant juice are still hiding in the little drawer, too, resting next to the small, cheap tool bag, untouched for about a month or so now. No one’s bothered to clean it out, as though they’re still expecting the renowned class delinquent to come waltzing through those doors, fake glasses and all.

But Mishima knows better than that. It’s like back then, when Kamoshida requested to see him for “extra pointers” in his office. The repetitive “Kurusu went back home for the time being” Ms. Kawakami drolls each time Mishima presses her for answers solidifies his theory. “Extra pointers” means a slap or five to the face. “For the time being” means never coming back, possibly in this lifetime. He swallows back down the bile clogging his throat and forces a tight smile at her response each time, croaks out a “Thank you,” and stops asking after three weeks. 

(“Thank you” means “please stop getting my hopes up.”)

*

His all-nighters consistently retain three rituals: checking the now-dead Phansite for any inklings of life, surfing through numerous news articles for something, _anything,_ that could turn up the ever-distant truth, and - as he curls up beneath a mound of blankets with some delusion that maybe he’ll be able to sleep tonight - checks his messenger app. He scrolls by conversations with his other classmates before hesitating over a cute kitty icon. He taps the message stream open while biting his bottom lip, eyes stinging as he stares too long at the screen. 

**Kurusu** (18/11/20XX @21:20): <3

One heart. Mishima, on a whim, sent him some dumb cat-GIF that he no longer could stand to look at that night, the night before Kurusu disappeared. He remembers grinning when he received that message, making a mental-note to send more some time. 

But next time never happened.

So Mishima has one heart, buried beneath a string of frantic inquiries of Kurusu’s wellbeing. His thumbs shake as he taps into the empty text box, cursor blinking in anticipation.

**Me:** Please say som|

_No._

**Me:** It’s been over a month n|

_No, no._

**Me:** You didn’t really kill yourself did y|

_No way._

**Me:** i miss you. | 

_> Sent @01:56_

He presses the Home button to escape his horrifying confession and lets the screen go dark. His sight turns blurry, and when he squeezes his eyes shut, the blanket does little to shield him from the rain dribbling down his cheeks. His teeth clatter together. His fingers crush the phone so tightly that he almost thinks he breaks it. But what difference does that make? No one’s going to answer him. Kurusu - Kurusu probably has no cell service, wherever he is. Or maybe the government took his phone. Either way, he knows better to cling onto the faintest possibility of a response.

But that’s what the Phantom Thieves are there for, right? To give hope to the downtrodden? To kick the corrupt society’s butt and serve it justice? To appear when you least expect it? Things look bad, sure: Japan has a new prime minister who just _feels_ shady, that ace-detective Akechi is hailed as a hero everywhere he turns, and there’s no sign of the urban legend thieves to save the populace teetering ever closer to despair. But Mishima hasn’t lost faith, not entirely. They’ll come. Kurusu will come.

He opens the phone and types out a new message.

**Me:** please don’t keep us waiting for much longer.

_> Sent @02:09_

*

(“Hey, Mishima.” Kurusu cocks his head to the side, fluffy bangs draping over one of his eyes. He spins his cellphone on his forefinger with such dexterity that Mishima feels a slight tinge of jealousy. What, he gets to be cool _and_ talented? Life really is unfair sometimes. Still, it’s little things like that which Mishima admires most in his ~~friend bestie crush are they dating maybe who knows kurusu’s never been one for straight answers~~ hero. Kurusu finally glances at him, small smirk tugging at his lips. “Remember that time where those Phan-Girls got fake-sick and ditched us?”

Mishima rolls his eyes and button-mashes on the controller. Who thought challenging a Level 9 CPU of Lt. Eagle was a smart idea? Nobody, that’s who. “They were real-sick, Kurusu.”

“Uh-huh.” He emits a playful hum and nudges their shoulders together. Mishima fails to guard from Lt. Eagle’s signature kick two milliseconds later. “What were we planning on doing with them, anyways?”

“Um.” Mishima winces as his character falls to his death, reducing him to his last stock. “I guess hang-out? I haven’t thought about it since then, really. Think I had movie tickets that went to waste, too.” 

“Movies,” Kurusu repeats, fidgeting with his glasses. He stretches after a prolonged moment of silence, pops his neck joints, and lets one arm fall onto Mishima’s shoulder, who stiffens immediately. Kurusu almost retracts, but Mishima moves a little closer, reassuring him that it’s okay. Kurusu relaxes. “Hey. Want to go to the movies with me next weekend? We should be wrapping up another target by then, if all goes well, so I’ll finally have some free time.”

Lt. Eagle shouts _Eagle Pawnch!_ and nearly blows out the TV speakers with its force. Mishima’s winged character lets out a pitiful squeal while twinkling out in the distance, ending the slaughter at long last. His grip loosens on the controller and forces himself to keep staring at the “Results” screen. He did badly. Really, really badly, worse than usual. 

“Like,” he finally says, licking his lips and glancing at him, “like a date?”

Kurusu pretends to act cool by shrugging nonchalantly, but the faint pink dusting his ears betray his intent. “If you want it to be. Don’t worry ‘bout money, either. I got it covered with my… part-time job.”

“You’re serious?”

Kurusu snorts. “When am I not?”

“Other than ‘all the time?’ Gee, I wonder.” Mishima rolls his eyes, but his exasperation quickly fades when they look at each other. He wipes his palms against his pants and gives a sheepish laugh. “This isn’t some kind of prank, right?”

“Could be.” He grins, but it slips when Mishima sags. “Kidding. I’m being legit here, believe it or not. I promise.”

He tries to hide how excited he is, but fails when his head jerks up. “So it _is_ a date, then. Heck yeah, I want to go. Free popcorn.”

Kurusu laughs, then slumps down slightly before resting his head on Mishima’s shoulder. He never gave an indication that he’s actually quite the cuddler. “And don’t worry,” he murmurs as Mishima starts up a new match with a Lvl 8 CPU, “unlike those girls? I won’t keep you waiting. Promise times two.”)

_~~liar~~ _

*

He corners Sakamoto and Takamaki after school one January afternoon. Neither seem happy to see him, and frankly, he isn’t in the mood for talking so much lately. But he has to. His footsteps thud against the hallway floorboards, heavier than usual, as he approaches them. Takamaki unfolds her arms, eyes widening with alarm, elbowing Sakamoto with a hushed whisper. He winces and opens his mouth to yell, but it comes out as a strangled sound when he spots Mishima. A pained expression flashes on his face as he rubs the back of his head, clicking his tongue.

“Knew you’d come to us someday,” he mutters, almost too quietly for Mishima to hear.

“What happened.” Mishima startles himself with the steady flatness in his tone. He balls up his hands into fists by his sides. “What _really_ happened. I want - I have to know.”

Takamaki and Sakamoto glance at each other, eyebrows furrowing. Takamaki hugs herself, twirling one of her ponytails around her forefinger, eyes averting Mishima’s pressing stare. Sakamoto kicks the floor once, then twice, with his heel. Neither say a word. So Mishima repeats himself, a little louder:

“I _have_ to know. What happened.” Then, in almost a whisper: “Please.”

Takamaki starts blinking rapidly. She shifts her weight from one leg to the other. 

“Dude,” Sakamoto says, shaking his head. “You… You already figured it out, haven’t ya? Why’re you bothering us about this. Is this fun for you? Trying to get a scoop to update all your fans on some stupid websi--”

“ _Ryuji.”_ Takamaki shoots him a glare. 

“Shit. Sorry. Didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.” He sinks his hands into his pockets. “I ain’t want to think about it, ‘kay? We all,” he looks to Takamaki, who resumes staring at the floor, “we all don’t wanna remember where we fucked up. It… wasn’t supposed to end like this, y’know. We had - _he_ had - a plan and everythin’. But…”

“Ryuji, stop it.” She grabs his forearm and pulls. “We can’t talk about it. Not… not until everything’s over. There’s still so much to do, and so little time, and we’re already late for a meeting with Makoto--”

“How.”

They stop. Mishima’s knees buckle. 

“How did he…” He swallows down the bile in his throat. “Who…”

_Die. Killed him. Why. This is a joke, isn’t it?_

Sakamoto turns away, scowling. Light catches in his watering eyes. 

“Dude, please. Drop it.”

“But I--”

“Just _stop_ already!” Takamaki’s shout catches the attention of everyone around them. Mishima jolts, hands flying close to his chest. “We don’t know, okay? Are you happy now? It was all fool-proof! And now, he’s--”

“C’mon, keep it down,” Sakamoto says, and she grits her teeth together, nostrils flaring. He shakes his head again. “Mishima, a favor? As your buddy? Don’t ever bring it up again ‘til we wanna actually talk. ‘Kay? Aw, dude, don’t give me that look. Listen, I mean it, once everythin’s over? I’ll tell you everything. Just,” he gives a weak grin, “give us time. We still got a lot to do. C’mon, Takamaki. Can’t keep Her Majesty waitin’.”

Takamaki glances at Mishima, eyes unreadable, before she bows her head and hurries alongside Sakamoto. His fists unclench. His jaw grows slack. His heart sinks to his stomach, melting in its acids. Time stands still, and he doesn’t follow them, no matter how much his thoughts beg him to.

_“...tal shutdowns have continued, meaning that, even without their Leader, the Phantom Thieves are still up to their nefarious deeds.”_

That voice. Mishima’s head jerks towards a third-year girl and her friend watching something on their phone. A bitter taste dances on his tongue as an interviewer presses the “star-detective” on for more. 

_“Not to worry,”_ says Akechi, giving a tinny laugh over the phone’s small speaker, _“Prime Minister Shido will ensure the defeat over the Phantom Thieves and anyone who has helped them along the way. Such terrible influences have been left unchecked for much too long. It’s my job to make sure it ends sooner rather than later.”_

___“Ooh, a declaration of war against the Phantom Thieves! This is exciting. We’re rooting for you to come out on top, Akechi-kun!”_

_“Naturally. With the former Diet member Toranosuke Yoshida’s latest death on their hands, there is no room for mercy at this point.”_

“Wow, isn’t he dreamy?” One of the girls sigh and smiles at her phone. “What a great guy. Too bad we don’t have anyone in this school as charming as him. Is it too late to transfer?”

Her friend swats her shoulder with a laugh. “You’re about to graduate, dummy.”

“A girl can dream, right?”

Their giggling follows Mishima down the hall and into the bathroom, where he wills his stomach to hold onto his lunch. He presses one palm against the wall, and the other slaps over his own mouth, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. He rocks a little, back and forth, back and forth, in some halfhearted attempt to calm down. He reaches for his phone and opens the messenger app.

**Me:** tmmlell me its no tur|

**Me:** say smthn|

**Me:** skmamto and tkkmk havnt given up on|

**Me:** thedetectivesgloatngandi ha te hi|

**Me:** whyd you have to die

_> Sent @ 15:15_

*

He’s standing in the train station, waiting for the Shinjuku line and surrounded by the blurred faces of hurrying human beings when it happens. A distinct chime, a vibration in his pocket. Idly, he opens the phone, wondering if it’s his mom reminding him to pick up some groceries, before almost choking on his spit.

_> Read @ ??:??_

**Kurusu:** hey.

_> Kurusu is typing…_

He drops the phone. The screen cracks a little, but he scrambles to pick it up, heart pounding in his ears. He yanks down his scarf as though it will help him see better, gaping like a fish that’s been abandoned by its home and discarded along some riverbank. He watches as one by one, texts fill up his screen.

**Kurusu:** are you getting these

**Kurusu:** you’re not bc how could u there’s no way but i have to try

**Kurusu:** if you are, then

_> Kurusu is typing…_

Someone bumps into Mishima, and he drops the phone again, hands slick with sweat. The cracks grow larger, spreading like conspiracies all over his screen. He kneels to pick it up, only for someone to kick it away. Some lady’s heel nonchalantly crushes it before he can cradle it safely in his palm again. It’s barely visible amidst the glitches, but the text messages are still coming, still legible if Mishima squints. So he squints. He prays. The station is cold, and he can see his breath, and the speakers are announcing his line’s arrival shortly, but he doesn’t dare move. If he does, he fears he’ll wake up. 

**K?rusu#’?/** you go? to get ou# of

**K?rusu#’?/** h urr? Y

_> Kurusu is t?pying…_

Mishima tries to write a response, but the keyboard is completely unresponsive. In the distance, the train is coming. People are closing in, ready to board.

It starts to rain.

Rain?

He starts to glance up - _aren’t I inside?_ \- but a vibration reclaims his attention.

**K?rusu#’?/** i can?t stop him from where i am i?m sorry

**K?rusu#’?/** he?s coming for you like the others couldn?t save them no physical form being kind? dead or wh?ever this is

**K?rusu#’?/** you can?t stop hi# w?o the power me ? the o#hers have

**K?rusu#’?/** please

**K?rusu#’?/** please run ? yuuki

_> Kuru?u is t?..._

Droplets patter against the screen, and Mishima scrubs it away, sleeve staining a dark red. Red? He peers up, and--

And the ceiling is melting. It’s melting, and everyone is gone, poof, vanished. His knees begin to ache as something cold presses up against them. He glances down - train tracks? - before standing up. What the hell is going on? His brain struggles to comprehend what he’s seeing ( _a nightmare, this has to be a nightmare, are those ribcages, what’s with the trains rushing by, what are those weird lumbering things, why is my back pocket so damn heavy all of a sudden_ ) before realizing, _wait. Wait, I’m already home, aren’t I? I already bought the groceries. I… I went to bed, and..._

He hears footsteps. Hollow, heavy footsteps, coming from behind him. He swallows hard, twitching slightly, before looking at his phone. The screen went dark from inactivity, and for the briefest moment, he thinks he catches a flash of yellow where his eyes are supposed to be.

Before he can dwell on it, a new message arrives:

**K?rusu#’?/** he?s here 

“Should’ve used an IP blocker.”

It’s that voice again. It tickles Mishima’s eardrums before clawing its way into his brain, where it tears up all the good in this perceived world and makes itself at home in his festering insecurities. A vibration.

**K?rusu#’?/** yuuki pl@3ase

_> K????..._

Kurusu’s scared. Kurusu’s never scared. Whoever this guy is, they’re dangerous. They’re dangerous, meaning that Kurusu experienced their strength before. Mishima lets his arm fall by his side, phone slapping against his thigh. An idea blossoms in the back of his mind as he tilts his head at the contorted wall in front of him.

_This guy killed you, didn’t he, Kurusu?_

_How unfair._

“You’re the last one.” There’s a clicking sound and a relieved sigh. “The last of _his_ little accomplices. Without any outside help, the Phantom Thieves will have nobody to rely on but themselves. Sure, it’s taken longer than it should have, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to cover all my bases. That’s something you should’ve done, too. Right, Mishima Yuuki?”

Fear. He feels like it’s back then again, like he’s trudging through the blood, sweat, and tears of his fellow volleyball teammates towards that forsaken office, towards Japan’s most virulent man Mishima’s ever met. Kamoshida, however, pales in comparison to this honey-sickle voice, to the tittering that accompanies the _clickety-clacking_ bassline in the background. 

But instead of running, he does something--something bizarre.

Mishima begins to _laugh._

It’s distorted, it’s warbling. It doesn’t sound like himself at all. It’s like some stunt-double has seized his body and now has a will of its own. But it’s still him. It’s _all_ him, laid bare before the very scum he thinks - he _knows_ \- murdered his most beloved hero. He’s been here before, hasn’t he? It’s all familiar; the smell of iron and putrid rotting flesh, the harsh contrast of red and black, the haunting melody of the train’s boarding bell. He’s been here before, been seen here before, by sharp brown eyes and an understanding smile.

That’s all gone now, that warmth. That comfort.

But Mishima remains. And so does Kurusu’s reaper.

“What’s so funny?” The reaper asks, a mild curiosity riddling his tone.

“You are.” Mishima turns with a sneer, almost snorting at the reaper’s white clothing. What is he even doing, trying to parade himself as an angel? What a horrendous disguise. A wolf in sheep’s hide. “You really see _me_ as a threat. Some nobody?”

The reaper flashes a bright smile. Mishima wants to punch it.

“The very same nobody who spawned a plethora of fans throughout Japan and the world, yes. Goodness, we can’t very well have that influence still, can we? Their reputation could return, should you spread the truth. For someone so _boring,_ you really, _really_ are a pest, ‘Yuuki.’ Can I call you that? Yuuki. It’s written like ‘courage,’ isn’t it? Or are you as cold as winter? Which is it? I’ll need to know so I can find your name in the graveyard next week.”

The phone vibrates. Mishima steals a glance at it.

**K#####** yuuki?

“One sec.”

The reaper blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I said, ‘one second.’ I have to address _my_ biggest fan for a moment You’re not the only popular one, you know.” The touch screen is finally working (or at least, working enough). He hits “Send” and pockets the phone. And then shrugs. “I thought you were an _ace detective._ Couldn’t do your own research to figure my name out?”

“I know a lot more about you than you think, Yuuki. Habits and all. Depressing life and everything. Like I said, IP tracker. Invest in one in your next life.” The reaper’s gun is a shiny silver. It glints in the atmospheric lighting, much like the twisted grin the reaper bares. “But, before I shoot, tell me: what final words would you like me to impart onto the Phantom Thieves when I pay them a visit? I have one from everyone else, you know. Poor Mr. Toranosuke’s was a trivial ‘believe in yourself.’ How heroic.”

Mishima clasps his hands behind his back and ponders for a moment. It’s almost sad, how this reaper seems to have nothing but a hellbent vendetta against the Phantom Thieves and little else. That smile is empty. He’s completely alone. Mishima shakes his head. What a pitiable guy.

“Last words,” he repeats. The reaper nods, casually strolling towards him, oozing sickening amounts of confidence. He stops and points the gun at Mishima’s forehead. Mishima’s fingers twitch around plastic that, for a moment, seems to feel like steel. 

(Kurusu pauses and glances up, pen stilling in his hand. “Courage?”

“Yeah.” Mishima manages to laugh, but he looks away, embarrassed. “Kinda dumb, huh? My mom named me that thinking I could become someone brave. Guess the opposite happened, huh? I’m no hero.”

“It’s not dumb at all.” Kurusu finishes writing and folds up a piece of paper before pushing it across the cafe’s table. Mishima blinks and takes it, fingers toying with the edge. “It’s your name. Be proud of it. Be proud of you. You’re a lot braver than you think, you know. Won me over by fighting bullies with the power of technology. You’re an everyday hero, Mishima. _My_ hero.”

He sputters, face burning at the praise. The paper nearly crinkles from his grasp. Kurusu smiles. 

“Go on, open it.”

Mishima does. And laughs.

_Do you like me, Mishima Yuuki, best boy in all of Tokyo?_

_> Yes >Hell Yes_

“Your hero demands your pen,” he replies, and Kurusu complies. He ends up circling both options, which results in another date featuring smoothies and arcade games. Deep down, he knows it’s the other way around. After all, Kurusu is always saving him.)

Mishima stares down the barrel of the gun and into the eyes of a love-deprived beast pretending to be a human. He closes his eyes. He nods. 

“My last words?” he says, pulling out the model gun he bought for protection when he first started the website. The reaper does a double-take in surprise; this clearly isn’t in his calculations or plans. “I’m not just your average Phan-boy. I’m their _producer._ And frankly? You’re making them look bad. For the sake of their fame and my reputation? You can kindly leave the limelight.”

There’s a vibration in his pocket, desperate for his attention. 

And then there’s a gunshot.

*

_> Read @ ??:??_

> _M. Yuuki <3 is typing…_

**M. Yuuki <3:** Hey.

**M. Yuuki <3:** Don’t worry about me, Akira.

**M. Yuuki <3:** Your hero’s coming to save the day.

**M. Yuuki <3:** See you soon, God willing.

**Me:** How did you get those messages

**Me:** No one’s ever responded before

**Me:** I’m literally in another dimension. I’m literally in a prison of probably Satan and must repent for my sins or whatever. There’s no service here. I’m only supposed to ‘see’ what’s going on through my phone to understand the ‘full weight of my actions’ or some stupid bullshit. This guy never tells me anything concrete. 

**Me:** What did you do differently??? How did you get those???

**Me:** Hey?

**Me:** Yuuki?

**Me:** Hello?

**Me:** Are you there?

**Me:** ????

**Me:** I can’t see you anymore. Igor won’t let me see where you are anymore.

**Me:** ...Did I lose my ability to see you like the others when he…?

**Me:** Yuuki please.

**Me:** Yuuki please tell me you didn’t try standing up against him

**Me:** YUUKI

**Me:** You’re dead.

**Me:** He’s got you too.

**Me:** …

**Me:** the only one who responded was you and I even warned you and yet

**Me:** you’re still dead.

**Me:** I’m so sorry

**Me:** I hope one day we can meet so I can apologize in-spirit or

**Me:** something

**Me:** Yuuki? Please say something

**Me:** dammit

**Me:** fuck

**Me:** I’m so sorry

_> Sent @ ??:??_

*

_> Read @ ??:??_


End file.
